


The Path to a Martin's Heart

by Comma_Kaze



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: F/M, Food, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:38:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comma_Kaze/pseuds/Comma_Kaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas and Arthur notice that Martin is frighteningly skinny, so they do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Path to a Martin's Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for jbs_teeth, who requested Martin H/C with an extra helping of C. For the Americans, 17 cm is roughly 6.6 in.
> 
> Beta: jbs_teeth

If it weren’t for the dropped set of keys, it never would have happened.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, blast,” Douglas muttered, peering over the back of the desk, where his lanyard had just vanished through the slim gap between wood and wall. He dropped to hands and knees in the space underneath, peering for the glint of metal. “Ah, there you are.” Sliding one arm under the bottom of the desk, he strained to reach the lanyard, but his shoulder caught at the edge with several centimetres left between his fingertips and the fabric.

Behind him, the door to the portacabin slammed open to admit a perpetually exuberant Arthur. “Douglas, Mum wants to know why you aren’t on the plane yet! Skip’s already done the walk-around and the passengers are getting antsy.” There was a brief moment of silence. “That’s an odd phrase, isn’t it, ‘getting antsy’? D’you suppose people actually start to act like ants if they’re left bored long enough? Is that why you’re crawling on the floor, Douglas? Oh, no! You can’t be antsy; if you turn into an ant, who’ll help Skipper fly the plane?”

“No, Arthur, I’m not turning into an ant,” Douglas said, crawling out from under the desk and standing with a huff. “I will, however, turn into a semi-permanent fixture at the air field if I can’t retrieve my keys from under the desk, and I can assure you that no one wants that.” Seeing Arthur brighten, he cut him off, “No, Arthur, it wouldn’t be like a sleep-over.”

“Oh.” Arthur deflated. “Well, can’t you just move the desk?”

“Your mother had the brilliant idea of bolting them down, unfortunately. For some reason, she seemed to think I would take advantage of anything of value that  _isn’t_  bolted to the floor. Her crucial mistake, of course, being that these desks are about as far from valuable as you can get without digging through the trash.”

“Oh, yes, I do remember that. You know, power drills are really quite more powerful than I’d expected, but they’re quite fun when you get the hang of it!”

“Yes, I noticed. The ‘Home Sweet Home’ drawn on the wall next to Carolyn’s office in screws was rather a dead give-away as to how much you enjoyed it.” He peered at Arthur’s arms, deciding that they might possibly be just long enough to catch the edge of his keys. “Now, Arthur, I don’t suppose you’d grab my keys from under the desk? I’m afraid I can’t quite reach.”

“Sure thing, Douglas! Oh, and then we’ll have to hurry to get back to GERTI; Mum and Skip were showing five of the seven signs of irritability and frustration, which suggests that they might proceed to follow the second pathway of reaction based on negative emotion if we don’t get back soon, which means that they’ll get really angry and probably shout a bit…” His voice grew muffled as he wiggled under the desk, and Douglas sighed.

“For pity’s sake,” Martin’s voice came from the door. “We’re running late! What are you  _doing,_ Arthur? You were supposed to be fetching Douglas!” When Douglas turned to face him, eyebrow raised, Martin glared at him.

“Oh, yes! Most definitely, Skip, but Douglas lost his keys, so I’m trying to fetch them before I can fetch him, and then we can fetch ourselves back to the aeroplane!” He gave a quiet grunt, twisting around under the large desk, and pulled himself out. “No luck; I couldn’t reach them, either. Sorry, Douglas.”

“Oh, for the love of—here. I’ll do it.” Martin pushed past them, shoving his hat into Douglas’s chest, and dropped to lie flat on his back under the desk.

“Really, Martin?  _You’ll_  get my keys?” Douglas asked. “Not to burst your bubble or anything, but if neither Arthur nor I had arms long enough to reach, the chances of  _you_ being able to…” he trailed off, watching as Martin puffed out his breath and slotted almost his entire torso into the seventeen-centimetre gap between the ground and the bottom of the desk. “Ah. Skinny little thing, aren’t you?”

Martin didn’t respond until he’d wriggled back out, Douglas’s keys in hand. “Yes, well. There are only so many calories in toast and pasta. Now, can we  _please_  get a move on? We’re already running fifteen minutes behind schedule, and I’ve got a job with my van waiting when we get back.”

He left without another word, but as Douglas and Arthur followed, Arthur whispered in a rare bout of discretion, “Douglas? Are bones supposed to stick out that far? It’s just that mine don’t do that, and Skip’s were really, really easy to see when his shirt rode up.”

And so the seed was planted.

 

* * *

 

“Ah, Martin! A moment, please.”

 _Oh, wonderful. Just the thing I need._  Martin sighed, letting go of the doorknob and turning to enter Carolyn’s office. “I really have to be going; my van needs an oil change, and I’ve got a job at six.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re very busy wearing yourself out so that you’re exhausted when you fly my plane, but this won’t take long. Close the door and have a seat.” She straightened a pile of papers and leaned over to rummage through her desk drawers.

“That’s not fair, Carolyn! I’m not exhausted when I fly the plane, and you  _know_  that I have to work with my van. It’s my only source of income; I can’t very well just quit so that I can fly GERTI, can I?” Still, he took a seat and fought to ignore the numbers of his finances ticking away in his head like the ticking of a time bomb.

“That’s all well and good, Martin, but I rather thought you’d be interested in supplementing that meagre income you told me about? Ten pounds per job, I thought you said?” Carolyn gave him a sickly-sweet smile, and it only made his stomach sink in response as he began to understand why she’d called him in.

“What are you implying? If this is some pity job where you’re going to pay me fifty pounds to cart your—I don’t know, your  _dog_  or something—five kilometres, you can just keep it to yourself.” Martin glared, knowing full well that his cheeks were flushing a terribly clashing red, and felt the frustrations and secret fears of the last several weeks threaten to spill out. “I don’t need charity,” he spat, rising to leave.

“Martin, wait. I’m not offering you charity.” Still wary and chafing under her stare, Martin faced her and crossed his arms. Carolyn took a breath and held out a slip of paper. “I am offering you professionalism. With the last few flights, MJN has miraculously managed to edge past the thin line between ‘dangerously broke’ and ‘merely poor.’ You find me in the startling circumstance of having, as they say, some extra cash. So, here.” She waved the paper in front of Martin’s shocked face. “Fifteen percent of our current profit margin. It’s not much, but it’s something, and you’re a paid professional, now. Congratulations.”

“I…” Martin stared at the cheque, hardly able to believe it existed. He swallowed and took the slip, the digits on the front blazing in his mind. Carolyn was right: It wasn’t much, especially for the captain of an aeroplane who ran as many flights as he did, but it was  _something._  It was the difference between GERTI being his hobby and GERTI being his job. “Thank you,” he managed. In the back of his mind, the numbers settled and darkened from red to black.

“You’re welcome. Consider it an incentive to keep MJN in the black—or, as is more likely the case, to make Douglas keep MJN in the black.” She nodded at the door, brusqueness falling over her gentle expression like a comfortable mask. “Now, get out and send Arthur in. I need to talk to him about his habit of being honest to the passengers. I don’t care how nice or interested they are; they don’t need to know about my washing habits.”

 

* * *

 

“So, that’s Boston, New York, Kudat, Tripoli, Ingolstadt, and Tambov to me; Tokyo, Ontario, Osaka, Albuquerque, Exeter, Reykjavic, and Cadiz for you. Which means…oh.” Douglas blinked as the numbers added up, and Martin grinned.

“That’s six to you and seven to me. I won! Ha, I won!  _Finally!_  And, we used  _your_  watch to keep time, so mine’s not suddenly going to reveal itself to be a knock-off—”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dismiss that possibility quite yet.”

“—and there’s nothing else that could backfire on me, which means that I’ve  _actually won!_  Yes!” Martin grinned, mood incredibly buoyed by the rare event, and basked in Douglas’s disgruntled muttering. “I believe we agreed on the Brie, the Emmentol, and the Roquefort?”

“Yes, yes, fine. Have at them, then.” Douglas pouted— _pouted!_ —and set his gaze on the sky, making a valiant attempt at ignoring Martin’s pleased hums.

“Mm, that is  _delicious._  I don’t think this cheese has ever tasted so good. Douglas, you’ve no idea what you’re missing.” Douglas grumbled something under his breath, and Martin snickered, riding the high of his success.

“I trust that Sir is pleased with his winnings?” Douglas drawled sarcastically, seeming to get his conversational feet back underneath him.

“Oh, most definitely.” Martin sucked on one of the cheese blocks with an indulgent slurp and fought to keep his jubilation down to manageable levels when Douglas’s cheeks pinched in response.

His celebration was interrupted by the cabin door opening. “Hi, chaps! Wow, Skip, that’s a lot of cheese! Did Douglas give you his share? It would make sense because you’re really—ah… Gin…ger?”

Martin glanced over to see the tail end of Douglas giving Arthur a truly dark glare, but he shrugged it off as unimportant against the glory of actually  _winning._  “No, Arthur, Douglas didn’t  _give_  me anything. I won it, fair and square.” The thought still made his insides squirm with delight.

“Wow,  _really?_  That’s brilliant, Skip! What was the game?”

“Who could make the longest thread of cities with airports in ten minutes,” Douglas replied lowly. “Each city had to start with the last letter of the city before it. Martin here took advantage of my distraction over the spelling of Inglestadt and managed to squeeze out one more than me, so he took possession of the cheese tray.”

Not about to stand by while his accomplishment was diminished, Martin added, “Don’t mind Douglas; he’s just miffed that  _I_ beat him at a word game. It was really a matter of strategy: You see, I challenged his spelling of Inglestadt, which kept him busy just long enough for me to figure out Rejkyavic and Cadiz.”

Arthur, true to form, beamed at him. “Way to go, Skip! I reckon this is the first time you’ve really got one up on Douglas in a word game, right? We should celebrate! Oh, I know: We’ve got some chicken strips in the galley for one of the passenger’s kids, but it turns out he doesn’t like chicken strips. Weird, isn’t it? I mean, who  _doesn’t_ like chicken strips? Anyway I’ll go ask Mum if I can get you a plate of it, since the passenger doesn’t want any. Be right back!”

Martin stared after Arthur, mouth open with his silenced protests. He snapped his jaw shut with a  _click_  and turned to Douglas. “That was a bit unusually exuberant, even for Arthur,” he commented. “Why d’you suppose he’s so keen to celebrate me beating you? I mean, not that I’m not completely  _thrilled_ that I did, but it’s not like he does the same when you win, is it?”

Douglas shrugged, though his forehead was creased in what looked like irritation. “I’m sure I don’t know; Arthur’s impulses are a bit beyond my understanding. Perhaps he just wants to mark this momentous event? After all, I can _assure_ you it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for him to celebrate  _you_  beating  _me_.”

“Hmph.” Martin turned away, popping another cheese into his mouth and savouring the taste. “So you say, but we’ll see, won’t we? Now that I know the  _trick,_  I think there’ll be a lot more winning around here. Er, for me, that is _._ ” Internally, he couldn’t help but agree with Douglas’s assessment, especially when he considered his track record in such things, but there was no way he was actually going to  _say_  as much.

Arthur burst in several minutes later with a steaming pile of reheated chicken strips, much to Martin’s shock. (“Carolyn actually  _agreed_  to letting you feed me the passengers’ food?! Arthur, you  _did_  tell her that I would be eating food originally intended for the passengers, didn’t you?” “Yeah! Brilliant, isn’t it?” “Well, I suppose if she agreed…”) Furthermore, while he certainly didn’t win all or even most of the cabin games after that, Martin managed to derail Douglas’s train of thought frequently enough that he became a serious contender in their bets for the cheese tray.

It was, he decided,  _brilliant._

 

* * *

 

“Arthur, please tell me you didn’t cook our meals again.” Martin stared in horror at the plastic food containers in Arthur’s hands that were distinctly  _not_  the containers for their catered food.

“Of course not, Skip; the catering is still in the galley, waiting to be heated up! It’s just…I’ve been taking cooking classes—”

“Oh god. And, you’re testing it out on  _us?_   _Mid-flight?_ ” Martin steeled himself.  _Firm and assured…be firm and assured._ “Arthur, I’m sure it’s delicious, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to try your latest concoction whilst piloting an aeroplane thirty thousand feet in the air. You remember what happened with the Maple Bacon Donut Smoothie?”

Huffing, Arthur threw his hands in the air, thankfully keeping a strong grip on the container. The contents thumped around wetly. “I apologised for that already! Besides, the agreement was only that I wouldn’t give you my cooking without telling you that I’d made it, not that I couldn’t serve you my cooking at all!”

“Arthur, I nearly  _lost consciousness_  while flying the aeroplane! No, I’m sorry, but please take that back to the galley.” Martin stared straight ahead, determinedly not looking back at what was sure to be an impressive kicked-puppy impression.

“But, Skip! I’ve been taking classes for weeks with Douglas’s friend, and she’s really good! I can actually cook now, honest!” Arthur entreated. “I just want you to try it and tell me what you think.”

Douglas hissed Arthur’s name in warning, but Martin twisted at the new information to look at his co-pilot. “Wait, a friend of Douglas’s?”

Caught, Douglas rolled his shoulders and settled into his drawling superiority. “Yes, if you must know. Arthur expressed a desire to learn how to cook in such a way that he  _wouldn’t_  have to immediately escort his guests to the A&E, so I called in a favour from an old friend of mine who went to culinary school. She agreed to give Arthur a much discounted rate when she heard how dire the situation was.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agreed, “she’s such a good cook she could probably charge loads for cooking lessons, but she teaches me for free!”

_“Arthur.”_

“Oh, for free, is it?” Martin glared at Douglas. “Is this like that friend of yours from Helsinki—trading in illegal favours, things like that?”

“Certainly not! Far be it from me to introduce Arthur of all people to the seedy underbelly of the world. No, Jennifer is quite a legitimate chef; she was just so horrified by the state of affairs that she practically volunteered once we’d explained the situation.”

Arthur nodded vehemently, nearly shaking his hat off. “Right; the look she gave us when we told her about how you—”

“—had nearly fainted after drinking Arthur’s smoothie was quite heart-breaking, yes,” Douglas interjected smoothly. “Martin, I assure you that after several weeks of tutelage under Jennifer, Arthur’s cooking will, at the least, no longer be potentially lethal. I give you my assurance that whatever he’s toting around is perfectly safe, so long as he’s followed her directions.” He twisted to peer at Arthur. “ _Did_  you follow her directions?”

“Yes, to the letter! I even wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget.” Arthur turned to Martin, who could feel his resolve crumbling with the occasional hunger pang in his belly. It  _had_  been quite a while since breakfast, and while Carolyn’s semi-frequent cheques were enough to fund healthy meals for weeks, they had more frequently gone toward the rent and fixing or replacing the many broken things in his possession. “Please, Skip, won’t you try a few bites?”

He sighed. “Oh, alright.” While Arthur whooped and uncovered the food—some sort of beef and potato stew, by the looks of it—and Douglas even cracked a tiny smile, Martin glared at them both. “If I get ill because of this, though, I’m blaming you both.”

Arthur didn’t even bother to reply, instead handing over the container and a fork. “Brilliant, Skip! Thanks so much! I can’t wait to see what you think of it.” With Arthur hovering over his shoulder, Martin took the first bite.

 _Wow._  “That’s…rather good, actually.” He poked at another chunk of meat, pleased when it fell apart with ease under the tines of the fork. After another bite, he said, “I like the flavouring; it’s unusual. Meaty and just a tiny bit salty, but it’s got a slightly sweet undertone. Arthur, this is really very good!” Martin shovelled in a few more forkfuls to the sound of Arthur’s delighted cheers and winked at Douglas. “That friend of yours must be some kind of miracle worker to get Arthur cooking this well in only a few weeks.”

Douglas’s lips turned up just a bit. “She is rather an excellent cook,” he agreed. “I’m sure Arthur will pass on the compliment; if he doesn’t, I will.”

Martin hummed in satisfaction and, with Arthur’s gleeful permission, ate the rest of the stew.

 

* * *

 

“No, Douglas, there is  _not_  a clause stating that you can smuggle illegal contraband through customs so long as it’s valued at less than fifty pounds! That’s the most ridiculous excuse I’ve ever heard.” Martin stomped through the airfield, Douglas trailing along with his usual unshakable smugness.

“And your hair is the most ridiculous shade of ginger I’ve ever seen, but you don’t see me complaining,” Douglas replied, and then he had the gall to smirk when Martin flushed in anger to match his hair. “Oh, dear. It seems to be spreading.”

“Douglas, this isn’t a laughing matter,” Martin warned, fighting down his irritation at the rib about his hair. He turned to face Douglas as he walked, opening the door to the portacabin behind his back while he spoke. “It’s going to get you in a serious bind one of these days, and you’re going to take everyone down with you if—oof!” Martin collided with someone standing just beyond the portacabin door, and they both fell in a pile of limbs and surprised yelps.

“Speaking of taking everyone down with you…” Douglas quipped.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry!” Martin squeaked, trying to disentangle himself and only managing to half-bury his face in a pair of breasts.  _Oh, just kill me now and save me the endless teasing._  “Sorry—sorry!” He finally managed to brace himself on the ground and shove himself off the poor woman.

The poor, attractively trim woman who was  _gaping_ at him from where she was sprawled across the floor, and could Martin just disappear, please? The blush from his conversation with Douglas returned with a vengeance, and he ducked his head as he offered a hand up.

“Ah, Jennifer,” Douglas said as Martin pulled the taller woman to her feet with a little difficulty. “Welcome to MJN Air. I see you’ve met Captain Crieff, already.”

“Jennifer? O-Oh! You’re the chef teaching Arthur to cook! Oh, god, I’m so sorry for falling on you and—um. The, uh. Falling on you. But, I didn’t know who you were! N-Not that I’d have done it on purpose if you were someone  _else_ , but now that I know who you are, I’m  _really_  sorry I sort of groped you.” Seeing her eyebrow rising, Martin hurried to assure her, “Not because they’re not nice! I-I mean, they are nice, but I hardly know you, and-and that was completely inappropriate of me.” Martin sputtered to a stop and fought to maintain eye contact despite the truly blazing blush covering his face and making good headway down his chest.

Douglas startled them both with a slow applause. “I’m impressed. That was even worse than when you tried to talk to Hester Macaulay. Jennifer, I do believe he’s smitten.”

“Douglas!” Martin gasped, scandalised, but Jennifer laughed.

“It’s definitely going down as one of my more memorable introductions,” she admitted, grinning at Martin. Her brown eyes crinkled at the corners, and she held out a hand for Martin to shake. “Jennifer Brighton. I am, as you said, the chef. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“L-Likewise,” Martin replied, and immediately winced when he considered  _how_ , exactly he’d met her. “I’m Captain Martin Crieff, and I’m  _really_  sorry about…that.”

“Yes, well, now that introductions are out of the way, Jennifer, I’m quite curious to know what brings you out to MJN,” Douglas said. “Surely you’re not looking to contract a charter flight?”

She laughed again, and Martin felt himself relax a little at the sound. “I’m actually waiting for Arthur,” she confessed. “I let him borrow one of my pans after our last lesson, but it turns out I need it for a cook-off tomorrow, so he said I could pick it up from him here. He’d actually just gone to fetch it when you two showed up.” And, because apparently the goal of the whole bloody world was to make Martin spontaneously combust from the heat of his blushes, she winked at him. “Making a new acquaintance is just a bonus.”

Martin found himself debating how rude it would be to just flee and leave them to it, but Douglas smacked him on the back hard enough that he nearly went sprawling into Jennifer again. “Well, Martin’s been enjoying the benefits of your lessons with Arthur,” he said. “Arthur seems to have deemed him official test subject of all culinary creations Arthurian."

“Oh, has he, now?” Jennifer smiled, pushing back an errant strand of brown hair. “And what does the official test subject think?”

“They’re excellent,” Martin managed. He swallowed and straightened his stance. “I mean, I’ve been food poisoned by Arthur before, of course—before you started teaching him! Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that he’s been regularly food poisoning me. Since you’ve started working with him, though, his cooking’s been really incredible. I didn’t think he had it in him. And, you’ve been teaching him for free? Thanks for that; it’s nice not having to worry whether the next thing he feeds me will kill me.”

She laughed for him that time, and Martin couldn’t help the silly grin even as he heard Douglas snort. “Well, I can say one thing about Arthur: He definitely had a story that inspired me to help. But, I’ve only been teaching him the basics. If you want to try some  _real_  food, Captain, I can whip you up some sort of  _haute cuisine_  in my kitchen. Are you free this Friday at seven?”

“I—what?” Was she actually asking him to her house after he’d knocked her down and dragged his face all over her chest? “S-Sorry?”

“Would you, Captain Crieff, like to come over to my house for some good food this Friday at seven?” she repeated. “And, to clarify any confusion: Yes, I mean this as a date.”

“Yes? I mean, yes. Yes, I’d love you. Love  _to!_ To, not you; not that I wouldn’t love you, too, but it’s too early to know if I love you or not, and what I meant to say was that I’d love to, even if I might love you, too. Which I don’t. Yet. Um. Friday at seven?” Douglas was laughing at him behind his back, he just knew it.

“Friday at seven,” she agreed as Arthur burst into the portacabin, nearly hitting Douglas in the face with the pan in his hand. “Thank you, Arthur; I’ll take that! Douglas, be a dear and give Martin directions to my house, if you would?” She grinned at them. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got to go order some ingredients and figure out a menu. See you Friday, Captain!”

And, just like that, she was gone. Martin stared after her, cheeks aflame and already wondering how he was possibly going to survive Friday night without making a complete idiot out of himself—or worse, her. Arthur’s head swivelled around on his neck as he looked between Martin and Jennifer, and his face split with a huge grin. “Skip, you’re dating Jennifer? That’s brilliant!”

Douglas’s burst of laughter drowned out Martin’s indignant and embarrassed reply.

 

* * *

 

Much to Martin’s shock and bewilderment, the date went well. As did the next one. And the one after that. There was just something about Jennifer; Martin was still as tongue-tied around her as with any other beautiful woman, but even when he stuttered out the most horrifically embarrassing misstatements she only laughed and waved it off. Eventually, Martin managed to relax around her and not panic whenever he phrased something poorly, making their conversations much more coherent and much less ridiculous. By the time he worked up the nerve to  _really_  kiss her—after their fifth date in as many weeks—it was with a nervous smile and a simple, “May I kiss you?”

She’d acquiesced readily enough, and it had almost resulted in burnt lasagne.

As was probably to be expected, considering her progress with Arthur, her cooking was  _excellent._  Martin always cleared his plate and then some, and even if he felt bad about eating her food at every date, with the extra money from Carolyn’s cheques he was able to contribute to the cost of ingredients, at least.

Jennifer, in turn, happily fed him and curled up with him on the couch to watch reruns of old sitcoms. Their relationship was comfortable, which came as a surprise to Martin, who had given up on any sort of comfortable relationship with the fairer gender when it became clear that he wasn’t gifted with the social graces of his peers. She listened to him prattle on about aeroplanes, and he sympathised with her complaints about other chefs and customers that thought they knew best when really a white wine would  _never_  go with that meat.

Despite Jennifer’s clear interest in him and his definite interest in her, though, Martin couldn’t quite bring himself to take the next step and ask her to bed. Every time he thought he’d worked up the nerve, he’d turn to her with his shoulders straight and mouth open to make the suggestion, but then he’d take in her wide mouth, pulled up in a tiny grin, and the ponytail of sleek brown hair that he  _loved_  to run his hands through, and his own lanky frame and ridiculous hair would make him snap his mouth shut and turn back to the telly. He probably would have kept avoiding the issue indefinitely if Jennifer hadn’t taken it upon herself to pick up the slack after dinner one night.

It was a delicious beef and potato stew, and Martin found himself licking his lips after every bite to capture the traces of sweet flavour in the succulent bites of meat. “That was amazing,” he said when his plate had been scraped clean twice over.

“I’m glad you liked it,” Jennifer replied, smiling at him over the table as she popped the last bite from her plate into her mouth. “It’s a special recipe of mine; one of the few I’ll never give away.”

Martin returned the smile and collected the plates for washing up. After, they went to the couch for their usual post-dinner sitcom. He snagged the remote to turn on the television, but Jennifer motioned for him to put it back, and he tilted his head at the change in ritual. “Is something wrong?”

Jennifer stared at him for several seconds, cataloguing his expression, before twisting towards him and curling into Martin’s side. Ignoring the way his breath caught, she took his hands in hers and brought them to his thighs. “How long have we been dating?”

“T-Two and a half months,” Martin managed, feeling as though his heart was about to pound out of his chest.

“So, that’s a month that I’ve been waiting for you to make a move,” she summarised. While Martin stared, unsure how to react, she brought his hands to her mouth and kissed the fingertips. “Would you prefer if I asked?”

Dumbly, he nodded, and she kissed him once on the lips. “Captain Martin Crieff,” she announced solemnly, “will you come to bed with me?”

“Oh,  _yes._ ” He managed a shaky grin for her when she tugged him off the sofa and toward her bedroom. She was patient with him, as she always had been, and it was no hardship to writhe against her grip on the shallow curve of his waist, though Martin found that caressing the more pronounced curve of hers was one of the best sensations he’d felt outside of GERTI’s cabin. A few minutes later, as she pulled him into her, he had to hastily revise his opinion while he buried his face in her neck and tried to remember how to breathe.

After, while his heart rate returned to normal, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew her in to lay her head on his shoulder. “Remember what I said, that first day in the portacabin? When you asked if I would come over for dinner? ‘I’d love you.’” Martin smiled at her and brushed her hair behind her ear. “I rather think I do.”

“I love to, you,” she replied. They looked at each other, remembering the verbal panic attack Martin had had that day, and both burst into a fit of giggles. As their laughter died down, they pulled each other closer and snuggled down for the night.

 

* * *

 

Watching Martin leave the portacabin to walk Jennifer in from the car lot, Douglas had to congratulate himself for his captain’s noticeably improved stature. “Well, that’s one potential crisis averted,” he said to the remaining members of MJN Air.

“Oh, you mean I’m no longer in danger of losing one of my pilots to malnutrition? Wonderful! Warm fuzzies all around. Let me know when the mushiness is over; I’ll be in my office, wondering how to keep MJN in business now that I’m giving Martin eight percent of the profits.” Carolyn, curt as ever, returned to her office and shut the door firmly behind her.

Arthur bounced to Douglas’s side and peered out at Martin with him. “Skip really is looking better, isn’t he?” he asked. “I mean, I saw him changing a couple of days ago, and I couldn’t see his bones anymore. That’s good, right?”

“Yes, Arthur. That’s good. That means he’s not starving anymore.” He could just make out Martin standing close to Jennifer, but both were far enough away to make any other details impossible to recognise.

“Yeah, convincing Jennifer to cook meals for Martin was a brilliant idea! And, d’you know, I think I’ve actually learned a thing or two about cooking in the meantime?”

Douglas blinked at that and turned to stare at the grinning steward. “Arthur, she never actually gave you any cooking lessons. You are aware of that, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but I  _saw_  her make some of the food. And, I think I kind of absorbed some of the knowledge just by standing around her! Oh, I know—it’s like this science programme I saw the other day: When cells absorb something! It’s, uh…osteoporosis?”

“Osmosis?”

“Yeah, that! I learned cooking through that.” Arthur positively beamed at Douglas, who sighed.

“Just don’t demonstrate your newfound cooking prowess near Martin,” he said, “or you’ll give the whole game up.” Martin and Jennifer were making their way back to the portacabin, so he drew away from the door and waited for them to walk in.

“Douglas, Arthur; how are you?” Jennifer asked, allowing Martin to escort her in and close the door behind them.

“ _Brilliant!_ ”

“Well, Jennifer. And yourself? I’m afraid Carolyn caught wind of a happy resolution and fled for the cold comforts of her office.”

Jennifer glanced over her shoulder at Martin, who smiled brightly in return, and returned her attention to Douglas with a soft expression. “I can’t complain.” She took Martin’s hand in her own and squeezed it.

“Wonderful. Feel free to take a seat; I’m afraid we’re a bit low on chairs, but you’re welcome to sit at my desk—it’s the one against the wall.”

“Thank you,” Jennifer replied, pecking Martin on the cheek and taking the seat. She set her keys on the cluttered surface and sighed. “These heels are torture devices, I swear. No idea why I thought wearing them was a good idea.” _Judging by the heated look our dear Martin just gave you, I think I have some idea._ “I don’t suppose you’ve got any decent tea sitting around? Oh, damn!” Jennifer cursed, turning and dropping to hands and knees to peer beneath Douglas’s desk. “I knocked my keys off the back.”

Martin sighed, sounding put upon. “Here, let me.” He handed Jennifer his hat and waited for her to move out of the way before lying on his back and squirming under the edge of the desk—except, to Douglas’s inward celebration, Martin got himself stuck just past his shoulder and couldn’t cram himself into the tight space. “That’s odd,” he commented, pulling himself out from under the desk and sitting up. “I can’t reach it.”

“In that case, we’d better find a broom or some sort of hook,” Douglas decided. “Arthur?”

“Aw, couldn’t we take out the screws, instead? I love using the power drill; it’s not easy at first, but after you get used to it it’s brilliant!” Douglas shot him a glare, and he shrugged. “Right-o, a broom or a hook it is! I’m on it!” Arthur sped out of the portacabin, murmuring to himself, “A broom or a hook…Oh! I think Dirk might still have that rake…”

“I didn’t realise I’d put on that much weight,” Martin was saying when Douglas turned back, “but I suppose I must’ve if I can’t fit under Douglas’s desk anymore.” He self-consciously glanced at his belly, just barely filling out his uniform, and Jennifer rolled her eyes. Douglas hid a grin and leaned back against the wall to watch.

“Martin, a cat would have a hard time fitting under there,” she scolded. “You can’t tell me you’ve actually squirmed into that small of a gap before? If this is you having gained that much weight, I don’t think I want to know how skinny you were  _before_.”

They bickered back and forth for a while, ignoring Douglas, which was perfectly acceptable to him. He took the opportunity to run a critical gaze over Martin’s cheeks (no longer gaunt and stretched), arms (bulking up under the combination of decent nutrition and frequent exercise), and frame (finally more solid than skeletal, thank god). There was no sign of that too-skinny creature that had scrambled under Douglas’s desk all those months ago left in Martin’s physical stature.

Douglas smiled. The lifestyle changes had definitely done Martin good. And, if it had required that he lose a few cabin games, set Martin up with a professional chef, and give up a bit of his pay for Carolyn to redistribute to Martin, he certainly wasn’t going to gloat.

Much.


End file.
